


Sympathy

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter finds a poor sap who works too hard but deserves so much more. You are that poor sap, who is then invited into this man's home as a sympathetic gesture. Peter is an odd fellow, interesting too, and you find love in peculiar places.





	1. Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> I got the courage to write this thanks to the Spiderverse discord- especially the Noir channel. This is only the beginning!

The street was silent, except for the occasional hiss from behind the dumpster and a car driving past the man’s windowsill. The daytime brought rest and the little time that Peter had for himself. Having returned from a busy night, shutting down the underground cocaine chain, all the man wanted to do was sleep. However, the sights he saw were not pleasing and he would much rather keep it off of his mind.

Clad in a dark-grey shirt, shorts, and general displeasure, he took a walk. Paranoia was not a nice mistress but he knew better than to distrust the tingling from back of his head, which failed to prove the fear of being watched right. Despite this, he continued towards the nearest park. It was early enough for people to enjoy taking their dogs out, which graced Peter’s presence. Every so often, he’d find a dog running alongside their owner. He didn’t know why but it never failed to give him a smile.

Upon taking a seat underneath a tree, legs outstretched and baggy eyes shutting but not allowing the sweet relief of a rest, he noticed a lone- what he assumes to be- factory worker. The bloodshot-tired eyes, ragged clothing, and splotches of scars gave it away but, then again, he could pass as one if somebody didn’t look all that closely. As much as he wanted to force himself up and protect the poor sap- which was indeed a hard worker- Peter couldn’t get himself back up. The comfort of the grass and the reliance of the tree pulled him back in, even encouraging him to have the rest he deserved.

Eventually, when the fella had fallen asleep on a bench in the park, Peter mustered the energy to get up and tap them on their shoulder.

☆ ☆ ☆

 You stirred, wondering whether or not turning to face this entity was worth it, but decided to anyways. You didn’t want to get into trouble sleeping again, so you forced your aching body to get up. The boss was not kind to you, forcing five times worth of work out of you for half the pay of one. This was how you paid the bills though and you knew it wasn’t going to be easy to leave this cycle.

What greeted you, however, was not a displeased officer ready to kick you off. Instead, a well-built man in round glasses and a face chiselled like a fellow one would find in a movie on aesthetic-enhancing science syared back. Three scars bared the radiance of hard work and suffering, two across his left cheek and one from one side of his nose to the other. His facial hair was uneven, shaved once this past month, but hasn’t been touched since.

“You okay? You look like you’re sicker than a street rat,” said the man, more concern than anger. It was a nice change in tone compared to what you had to go through recently. You didn’t want to take chances though, sitting up and holding a hand up to rub your eye until you notice the cut you had left open since the incident at the machine.

“I’m...” you started, hesitating to tell this stranger the truth or to spare them the sympathy. But you needed help, and you couldn’t stand the stench of the garbage any longer. “No. No I’m not-everything is painful and I want to live, goddammit!”

Then, a sudden pang of fear washed over you. What if that was a bit much? What if you ruined your chances? When you expect ‘get lost, dirty rat’ as a response, you don’t receive it. Instead, the man offers you something too hard to refuse.

“I know what that was like, kid,” he replies, offering a hand to help you get up and off the seat. “I’m Peter. I can offer you a place to stay. Food, a bit of. Money, though you’re going to have to work a bit. Not so hard that you’ll drop faster than a fly but hard enough that what you’re earning will feel worth it.”

You contemplate the offer for a moment. Similar to the promise that got you stuck in this rut, you couldn’t help but feel something ache and stab at your insides to leave the man be. It must be the look in his eyes- or maybe just the grogginess in yours- that convinced you to take the offer. Holding his hand, you can’t help but feel a shiver down your spine. It had been so long since you were given the slightest bit of affection, the warmth telling you that you’ll be fine.

“I’ve got a few spares you can try on,” said Peter, showing you the way to where you hoped refuge was. “Nothing fancy. A few shirts, pants, and a suit for special occasions,” he continued, both hands in his pockets as you trailed alongside him.

Upon spotting an apartment building, he gestured for you to follow him inside. It beat sleeping in the same room as fifty other workers, breathing in the same air only a few inches away from each other. The keys to Peter’s place opened the door after a bit of jiggling the doorknob, revealing a messy half-made futon, a couch big enough for one person sitting up, and a television beat up so well that it put the enemies Spiderman fought to shame.

A lone cupboard sat at the far end of the room by a sliding door that lead to a porch outside, dusty and old accompanied by an old set of books and a box of what you can only assume to be family trinkets. He seems a bit embarrassed of all that he has to offer, not all that proud of his abode, but it’ll have to do.

You take in the place- how big of an area it is in comparison to what you used to have. It has far more than you expected, even, with so much more freedom than before.

“Don’t have the time to cook or to make the place all that nice. Never had the time. Usually...out at work or asleep, so it doesn’t look the amount I can spend.” Peter reaches for his wallet, pulling out a few bills and handing them to you. You’ve never had more than a meal’s worth of cash, overwhelmed by the amount in your hand. How many meals is this? Ten? Fifteen? Worth a month? “Get something nice tomorrow. A snack, a couch, a blanket. Don’t have the time to scour the store for something nice so might as well give it to someone who can.”

You, still baffled by what you have in your hands, followed behind Peter as he shut the door behind you and took off his shirt. He kept his shorts on before your face began to visibly burb, having a look at the sculpted features of his abdomen littered with scars. One on his shoulder, the one just above is pecs. A long worm-shaped scar connected from beneath his pecs, the freshest. You caught yourself staring a bit too late, Peter snapping his fingers to grab your attention.

“Just going to take a nap. You can watch something on the TV but don’t try touching the nobs on the left. It’s not nice,” he says, laying on the futon and sleeping. He seems relaxed, at peace, unlike his usual demeanour which seems to be tense and stubborn. You don’t mess with his television, in fear of getting worse hell than an electric shock, and wander. Turning a corner by the entrance, you find a kitchen. It’s barely been used, a mess of flour on the counter but still usable. What catches your eye, however, is a Rubik’s cube.

It held the regular black-white-grey colour scheme, but it felt different. It felt like there was a lot more to it than just being a Rubik’s cube but there was no obvious indication. You made a mental note to ask where it was from; something about it felt off. Maybe it was how it sat there, solved and seemingly shifted around a lot, but never right. Maybe it was the place it was set, for a kitchen counter wasn’t the usual place you’d keep a toy.

The bathroom was connected to the kitchen, which had a windowsill staring directly at the sink. Above the sink sat a broken mirror, the few intact pieces stained with crusted blood that was never given a thought to wash off. The shower and toilet were a nice touch, considering that you didn’t have either of those where you used to be. The window, however, was beat up. Not quite broken but it had been opened and closed often. Hopefully it wasn’t due to disgusting people wanting to take a peak. In all honesty, though, you wouldn’t blame them all that much. After the sight you saw earlier, you might’ve done the same. Might’ve.

Now that you’re here, you notice just how long you haven’t taken a shower. You’ve gotten used to the stench but, now that you have the chance to acknowledge it, you can’t help but notice it assaulting your senses. You notice a curtain tied by the windowsill, kept together with a simple piece of yarn tied onto a hook screwed onto the wall. You undo it, close the door behind yourself, and allow yourself the pleasure of showering once more.

Turning the nob, you dip a finger into the downpour. Cold, but you don’t mind. It could be worse. The water tickles your skin once you get in, old ragged clothing sitting on the toilet seat. As you cleanse yourself, you notice just how much dirt and ash and other nasty things go down the drain. You’re glad you get this chance to wash it all off; it doesn’t seem that good.

☆ ☆ ☆

Returning to the living room- or is it bedroom? – Peter stirs from his sleep. He gets up shortly after you take a seat in the couch, noticing the brighter hue of grey you seem to have. He smiles- which is rather contagious, forcing you to smile as well- and takes the time to stand up before going to get a towel from his porch.

“Sorry that there wasn’t a towel in there,” he calls out, coming back inside with a rather warm towel to wipe you off completely. Considering how drenched your shirt is, he can tell you didn’t even try to find one. “Laundry day. Didn’t want to wait so long for it to get dry so I took it outside.”

 

You felt warm at your cheeks, thanks to the kind gesture. You’re so used to making do with what you have that you never ask for more- there’s no telling what the boss will do if you raise a finger. You tug onto the towel over your shoulders, wiping a bit at your face and drying out your hair. There’s a moment where Peter simply sits back on the futon and watches you- whether it is to see if you’re going to pull something over him or to check on you is beyond your train of thought at his still-shirtless body- before he gets up to go see the clothing hung up on the porch again.

You’re dry and hang the towel over the couch once he returns, arm full of clothing of varying shades. They’re mostly the buck-or-two kinds of clothing; cheap, simple, and easy to find. Peter places them on the coffee table by the couch, going back for some bits of clothing to cover your legs. When he places those by you, you take one of each and change in the bathroom. You’re not quite ready to go shirtless in front of someone else quite yet.

Once you exit, he raises a brow and smiles. He’s happy that he’s given you a gift you deserved long ago, which forces him to grimace once again when he notices that this was the very thing that he told himself not to do. Don’t get too attached, Peter. It’ll sting worse than a wasp if something bad ever happens. Best not hurt yourself.

But, damn, if your smile didn’t do something to his heart. He shook his head, brushing something off, and pat you on your shoulder. Even after a shower and fresh new clothing, he knew you needed the rest. The eyes, the aching in your bones- you couldn’t wash that off. He took you by the shoulders and forced you to sit on the futon, nodding.

“Rest for a bit. I have work later tonight so you can do something to make this place a bit better. I’m just gonna go ahead and continue the rest of my nap, okay?” His voice sounds so reassuring, so sweet. You can detect something special in it. It’s sympathy. He understands your trouble, your struggle, and your battle. He knows it like the back of his hand and his scars may prove it. “Lay down and sleep it off, champ. We can go out tomorrow and you can get anything you want.”

You do as instructed, laying down and turning to your side for comfort. The pillow is warm from when Peter was on it, but you’re not complaining. You can hear his footsteps off into the kitchen as he grabs something plastic from the kitchen, sitting back down on the couch to fiddle with it some more. You suddenly remember the Rubik’s cube but by the time you fully remember your question you doze off.

☆ ☆ ☆

The sound of a window being opened then slammed shut awakes you, no sign of Peter anywhere. You assume he’s off to work, as he said he would, and you’re left with a television on the brink of death as well as a dusty cabinet. You take this as your chance to clean the place up, as it’s begging for it. The TV sits in the room as the taboo- you don’t want to break it further- and you rush towards the cabinet.

Opening the doors to it releases the dust and forces you to cough up a storm. It’s been a hefty long time since anybody has cleaned it out, a pile of dust on each shelf. You look around in the kitchen cabinets for a duster- which also hasn’t been touched in ages- and get to work with the sad display. You take the time to wipe the glass of the photo using your shirt, seeing Peter and a couple behind himself. He seems younger, happier too, with a big smile and the couple doing the same.

It gives you a bit of a stab to the chest, knowing that people like them aren’t in your life anymore. But you don’t stick to it for long; you place the picture on the coffee table alongside dusted books. The trinket box is next, unlocked and revealing a necklace. It’s round, big enough for a small picture inside, and you make the decision not to take a peek at who’s it may be. He’s kind enough to let you in, so it’s only basic courtesy that you keep away from anything possibly too private.

Once done dusting away every pile inside the cabinet, you place the items back where they belonged. You put the duster down, admiring your work. It looks a bit less sad, knowing that it has been cared for a bit. Just as you turn to spot the Rubik’s cube, you hear the window open and close again. This time, you’re conscious enough to do something about it.

Afraid of a trespasser being inside, you hear shuffling behind the bathroom door. The knob turns, opening to reveal Peter holding an assortment of clothing, and shirtless. He’s dry, and there’s no towel in sight. That and the feather duster in your hands has hit him square on the face. You immediately retract your arms, dropping the weapon to the floor and begging for mercy.

He looks mildly confused- though he realises that you only did it to defend yourself- and pats you on the head. He smiles, laughing, and picks the duster up.

“Careful. Almost took out my eye. But, hey, you got the good idea kid. Next time, though, check what’s in there before you swing.” He doesn’t seem mad at all. In fact, he’s amused. You’re so very afraid of your life, that you’re going to get hurt again, but instead he’s embracing the idea of you protecting yourself. It almost seems like he’s proud as he escorts you back to the living room and makes you sleep on the comfortable futon as he sleeps on the couch which fits half of him.

“I don’t get visitors. I don’t get visitors nice like you that clean my cupboards. You deserve the bed,” he said, now snoring on the couch. He must be tired, you thought. He works so late at night- even the sight of the sun is a familiar one to you. It’s rising, and you can’t help but notice the heap of clothes in the corner he dumped when taking you back here.

You shouldn’t wash it yet, though. Laundry day was yesterday, so you better leave the ball until next week. For the next couple of hours, you can’t rest. You can’t close your eyes and fall prey to the hands of sleep. You can only stare at the ceiling and back to Peter, wanting to help more. Maybe you could cook breakfast, or maybe you could do laundry next week. Maybe you could help furnish the place better, or maybe you can just help clean every so often.

The sun fully rises, with Peter still asleep and you still awake. You get up, stars clouding your vision until they clear and you can walk to the kitchen. The fridge has two eggs, but nothing else. The pan has seen better days, but it can do. The toaster…will be fine. Grabbing the bread, you push the button and start working on the eggs. Once everything is ready, you prepare the sunny-side up eggs for his, plate looking rather decent. It’s the first time you’ve cooked in ages but it feels like you haven’t missed a day of it, bringing the plate to rest on the coffee table before lightly shaking Peter awake.

He opens his eyes and reaches for his round glasses- which only adds to his whole face-situation- and he’s surprised to see you having made a meal for only him. He tilts his head, a bit speechless, and refuses to eat until you have something for yourself. Both eggs were used for his own breakfast, so you make do with the last two pieces of toast.

For a moment, it’s just the silence of two people eating breakfast. Peter turns the TV on to avoid the painful silence from freaking you out, the white noise of a documentary on fish helping to disguise it a bit. He finishes first, waiting for you to finish before taking both dishes and cleaning them both, even when you offer to do it yourself.

“You’re treating me to a lot of things, Peter,” you say, though he’s stubborn enough to ignore you and place the plates on a drying rack amongst the utensils.

“You deserve it, doll,” he responds, wiping his hands on a rag and getting a jacket on over a white shirt and jeans. “You worked hard, you deserve things. That’s how it should work. We’re heading out in a few minutes- do you want to get anything specific or should I just lead the way?”

“Lead the way,” you reply, following him as he locks his door behind the both of you. You follow him, down the stairs and to the outside, on your first spending spree. You haven’t done this in forever, or at all, and you have this pent up adrenaline about it.

Then you remember the Rubik’s cube and you’re inclined to ask about it.

“Hey, uh…Peter….” You start your question, not sure how to put it. “That Rubik’s cube. It doesn’t…it…doesn’t seem to fit. It doesn’t feel right.”

You hope he gets it. You hope he understands what you mean by ‘doesn’t feel right’. You can only hope.

 

 


	2. Peculiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You buy something with real money for the first time in forever, and Peter's starting to seem a bit insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer than last time! Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos- all of them are cherished!!

He stops for a moment, seeming a bit sad about having to answer, but does so anyways as he continues onwards and you trail beside him instead of behind. He smiles again, thinking, maybe not understanding what you meant by that until he took the moment to contemplate it for a minute or two.

“A gift from some friends. One of them was helping me solve it but, ah, it’s going to be a while until I see him again,” he responds, the mention of these friends causing him to smile. You get mesmerized by how happy it is and, quite frankly, you’d have to be honest and tell yourself that he is, indeed, cute. “It’s a bit different, right? Don’t tell another soul but it’s not from here.”

You feel a bit odd. That’s not the answer you were expecting, but maybe he bought it outside of town and that’s what it meant. Maybe that’s why it felt off- it’s not from this area. Yet you can’t help but feel as if he meant something else- something on the larger scale than just not being from this part of town. Why did its origins have to stay under wraps? The cube was a mysterious object, and it left this ominous radiating energy in the back of your mind as you both continue onwards, but it didn’t seem like Peter was the talking type so you kept shut until he decides to speak up.

“You know, I think you’d like them. My friends, I mean. Quite the interesting bunch.” You took him as the stoic type, stubborn and sturdy. Judging from the gun show the other day, it hasn’t been easy for him. It’s nice to see him smile, but you don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you don’t see it often, or maybe it’s the sincerity behind it. Once you both reach the storefront, he opens the door for you and urges you go first before he follows, waving a hand to the manager sweeping the floor.

It’s nice to be here again and not steal something. The urge is very much stuck in your system but, knowing that you- or at least someone else- is willing to pay, you feel at ease. The manager gives you a very unsettling glare, Peter going off to reassure him that you’re here with cash, and he leaves you alone for the most part. Peter goes the extra mile and even offers the man compensation for all that you’ve taken, which is a considerable amount over the course of a few years.

Still, you can’t help but feel like you’re being watched. You take the bills Peter gave you yesterday out of your pocket to show that, yes, you have something to pay him back with this time. It gets him squinty-eyed, until Peter waves again to show that the two of you are going together. Instead of taking a handful of whatever is the closest to you, you take the time to decide which you’d like to take.

This feeling is odd. This is not normal- not normal to you, at least. You’ve never properly paid for anything before, and it almost feels wrong. Peter can sense it in your eyes as you take a look at the money in your hands, which started feeling clammy, and back to the shelves of snacks that you could very much afford with change. He places a hand on your shoulder as you snap out of a trance, even snapping his fingers in front of you.

“Take anything. You’ve deserved this for a long time. Here-” Peter attempts to help by taking a few miscellaneous chocolate bars from the shelf and into your hands, of which are still rather clammy, and points in the direction of the counter to pay for them. You’re a bit hesitant to come up to the manager, his scornful gaze forcing fear upon you. “Let them off the hook, Mike. They’ve worked harder this past week than you ever have in your whole life. If they try anything, I can knock them back into some sense.”

You get a chill down your spine and a sharp pang in the back of your skull at that comment, afraid to ask what counted as stepping the line. The manager loosened his mental grip on you, counting your total and taking the cash in your hands. After a bit of time, he offers you your change back and you slowly stuff it into your pocket. The crumpled bills flattened out inside as you stuck a finger or two to fix it. The candy bars were the next to go into your pocket and, just as soon as you had decided two couldn’t fit in the same one, Peter buys himself a box of matches. You assume it’s for his cigars, though you don’t think you’ve seen any around. Maybe he hides them?

You both go on your way, Peter taking the time to put the bills in order in his wallet. That and the matches get stuffed into his pockets, continuing the trip to the next store. For a moment, he checks the placement of the sun. Then, he looks around. It’s understandable, considering how tough times are starting to get. Instead of trailing behind him as you had done before, you decide to walk alongside him. He’s offering you so much- it’s the least you can do.

“So, your friends,” you start, trying to avoid silence. “Where did you meet?” You figured that they may be out of town. Plenty went out of time in hopes of a better future, or at least a quick end. Many lose contact, or never return the promised money they made.

“Not here. Definitely not here. Far from here, really. Though, I have to spare you the details. I don’t think you’d take it all that kindly,” is his response, which brings you to the conclusion that he may work with the Alley Cats. The Alley Cats were a feared group, that did regular heists and hurt those you loved the most. Their activity started to die off a bit when Spiderman started protecting New York. You wonder where he is now.

But if here’s the chance to join this dangerous group and avoid getting killed by them, by all means, do it. Stay buddy-buddy with Peter- he might get you in on it and help you stay out of trouble with them. You’ve seen how destructive they can be and there’s no way a member of that group is going to be flashy with their home, much less have so much money without having stolen it.

“Well, you don’t need to tell me everything. You can just…tell me some of the things.” Maybe you can stay in some better place, like an underground lair? Though, the last you remember hearing the news of, Spiderman shut it down recently. “Like, what was the place like?”

Peter scoffs, recalling the details. There were so many details- they hit him harder than a train running from the Alley Cats.

“Bright. God- that place was so bright. It burned my eyes. Maybe it blinded me a bit. I still can’t tell. You won’t find that here. Or, at least, not today. Traveled off to find someplace I could take refuge or at least be a bit more familiar,” he says, running a hand through his hair. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a bit mesmerizing. Peter adjusts his glasses, coughing. “When I found it, I still couldn’t get any answers. Not proper, understandable ones, at least.”

You can’t quite understand what he means. It sounds like a sudden drop into this foreign land from a crashed airplane- not fun. However, that didn’t explain why this place was so ‘bright’. There’s very little places like that around. Maybe he really is one of the Alley Cats. The Alley Cats travel. Sometimes. You think?

“Why did they give you the cube?” A Rubik’s cube isn’t the most special gift to offer, considering how hard it is to differentiate from grey and dark grey. It’s odd to think that there are creatures out there that can see such a broader field of color. Imagine thinking of a new color you haven’t seen yet- how mind boggling that is.

“It’s not something normal. I mean, it’s a Rubik’s cube. But it might be something other than grey. A friend of mine introduced me to some other colors but I, uh, forgot their names. The colors, not the friends,” replies the man. You tilt your head in confusion. There’s a few basic every-day colors. There’s black, there’s white, and there’s grey. There can’t possibly be a name for any other color, you thought. Though, Peter may know better. From the looks of his wallet, he’s been through more than elementary school. “Purple. There’s a thing called purple. Never figured if it was on that cube or not but my friend says no, so that must be right.”

You start to have second thoughts on these friends of his. The more he speaks of them, the less convincing they seem. Yet you clutch to your shelter, your savior, your knight in shining armor. It’s been far too long that you’ve been stuck in that rut. If staying out of it meant pretending to believe this man’s stories, then so be it. You can’t stand another day in the ditch, working your ass off at a factory sewing clothing you need but will never see again.

“Purple? What does purple look like?” you ask, playing along. Maybe he likes to make up these odd names, that’s fine. Not too crazy.

“Porker says it’s the color you find on stuff like, uh, grapes? I’ve never seen anything other than grey for grapes but that’s how it is in his little world. Odd world, I’d say,” he continues, still sounding rather insane. “Not everything is this dark everywhere. In our world, it is. But in his and a whole lot of other worlds, it’s not.”

You were not in the mood for something like this, but you inhaled through your teeth and exhaled through your nose. Peter was not making sense.

“You’re not making any sense.” There, you said it. You’re not proud, you’re not all that reluctant, but you want an answer. You can’t make this stuff up so easily- there’s a source. “Peter, I’m going to need you to make a bit more of it.”

He realizes you don’t quite understand. He realizes that you weren’t there, when the portal opened and shot him through a web of chaos into the street of New York City; something so foreign yet familiar to home. You weren’t there when he felt the first glitch, or found his supposed-to-be-dead Aunt May that wasn’t his own, or when he found others just like him.

“I know, it’s wilder than a hog in the forest, but hear me out. There’s more than just us. I mean- of course there is. But there’s more than just here. I might tell you sometime later but, ah, wouldn’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

You both walk in relative silence. There’s the occasional dog bark and car honk, but nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a rock on the sidewalk that you trip on but, just as you’re about to fall forwards, something scratches at the back of Peter’s head to grab you by the collar of your shirt. It barely chokes you as you can regain balance and continue to walk, face red at the mere idea of Peter caring about your wellbeing.

☆☆☆

Peter stops at a local butcher, ordering god knows what amount of meat from the man behind the counter, holding a very sharp and very condescending knife in one hand as he hands Peter a bag of meat with the other. You don’t waste time leaving the place- and the smell of raw meat- behind. Next, Peter takes you to another store. He buys a few eggs, replacing the ones you cooked in the morning, and a few other things you fail to recognize as he pays up and takes you home.

Once you’re back in Peter’s home, which you’re still not ready to call your own, you get to organizing all of the food where it belongs. New toaster to replace the probably broken down one, food in the fridge or on the counter, and one of your chocolate bars in the cupboard. The other, you’ve decided, is to be unwrapped and shared with Peter. It’s the least you can do.

When you return to the main room, you notice that Peter’s already snoring on the couch. It’s only then you notice how tired he seems. His job must be difficult, you thought. There’s not many easy jobs that offer this amount of pay. Now that you’re actually awake, though, you can admire the features of his body much more closely. Much like yesterday, he’s asleep without a shirt.

His glasses, upon closer inspection, are broken at the bridge. There’s quite the amount of tape keeping it together, and a crack down the left lens. You wonder why he hasn’t gotten that repaired. His hair is messy, short on the sides and slicked back in the middle. Though, even with effort, it turns out horrible. His face is worn down, from stress or physical exertion, or just both. The three scars you noticed earlier are deep and old, showing off his hard work. His jawline is sharp, and a five o’clock shadow decorates him around the lips.

He stirs, his snore stuttering, before he falls back into peaceful bliss. His chest isn’t the hairiest, maybe a few strands poking out here and there but nothing special. A trail from his belly button down to below his waistline catches your eye, but you don’t pay any farther attention. His scars easily put yours to shame, and a few under his pecs show off just how hard it’s been for him. His arm holds multiple scar, one above and one below his forearm. You hate to think of things like this but he’s probably been stabbed before.

This man is an obvious masterpiece, a tribute to pain and suffering. Yet he finds the time to help somebody like you, a beggar and a street rat, working hours, and days, and weeks, for a few cents. Peter holds the heart of a hero, though a little odd one at best. You wonder if he knows Spiderman. Maybe he’s the odd friend that Peter’s referring to- that hero was an odd fellow, too. Nobody knew where he went during the day. Maybe he works outside of town.

You leave the man be, noticing the little bit of tidying up you could do. The kitchen doesn’t take up much of your time, though throwing out the trash you find is a bit concerning. There’s at least five boxes worth of matches in there, but no cigarettes. Maybe he throws out the cigarettes somewhere else, but that doesn’t explain why the matches would be here. Judging by how the place looks, which isn’t a lot now that you think of it, he’s not the kind to have many guests over. You throw out the matches nonetheless; it’s best not to question him. He must have some sort of answer, despite his rather asinine color theory.

The counter is wiped clean of the mess left before, which gets you thinking on how it got to that state. You saw an empty bag of flour in the trash earlier, but that doesn’t really help. Peter’s not a baking man- or at least doesn’t seem like one- and you can’t fathom him having some lady-friend come over to help bake either, making this a bit of an odd discovery. But you can try asking later about it. Washing the burnt baking tins, maybe he did get some help. It might explain why he has quite the shortage on baking ingredients.

☆☆☆

The place is finally cleaned up, except for the couch, of course. Peter was still asleep, and you debated waking him up for something to eat during lunch, but you chose not to. Remember last night? He was out so late for so long. He needs his rest. As he is still resting, you take your other chocolate bar- the one you didn’t store inside the kitchen cupboard- and sit on the futon.   
You’re careful to silently unwrap the bar, hoping that Peter doesn’t wake up because of it. Once you can safely dispose of the wrapper silently, you take a bite. It’s been so long since you’ve eaten anything this good and it almost stings your jaw in the unfamiliarity of the taste. Yet, you continue to eat. You get used to the flavor, sweet and chewy, and it’s actually delicious. There’s caramel and nuts inside, which you label as good things to have in a chocolate bar, and finish eating.

You make a mental note to keep the other one for special occasions. Wouldn’t want to waste it now, since you don’t know when the next time you’re going to get one is going to be. Besides, you have another pressing matter to attend to. Peter’s used clothing is in a pile in a corner and, though you know laundry day isn’t until next week, it’s pestering you that it’s on the ground like that. It’s like he barely has any self-respect. You get up, pocketing the wrapper, and attend to the heap.

It looks like it’s got plenty of clothes underneath, even if last night was when Peter first put something there for laundry. You look for a basket of sorts, but to no avail. For how rich the man said he was, he didn’t indulge so much into that aspect. He could’ve gotten a better house, or a nicer bed. He could’ve invested in some nicer clothes, or maybe even a house maid. He could afford so much and yet he settles on some rinky-dink apartment in the middle of nowhere.

The dirty clothes are left for now. The next time you both go out to buy something, you could get him someplace to put his laundry. Maybe then it’ll be a bit easier. You yawn, realizing that not sleeping last night was not a good idea. Just like Peter, you fall asleep into peaceful oblivion. Now that you’re not sleeping on park benches and in alleyways, you have this moment to feel relaxed. There’s no sun to burn your eyes or policemen to kick you away for sleeping on public property.

You hate to say, or even think, this, but maybe the cycle really is closed. Maybe you’re really free. You’ve felt this a lot, and thought about this a lot, but have never been right. But maybe this really is it- you’re actually going to be fine. You worry about jinxing yourself, but Peter really does seem like a nice guy. He offers you things and asks for so little in return. You don’t have to break your arm or bend over backwards. There’s no deadly machines involved, nor threat. If you wanted to leave, you didn’t have to snap your legs.

☆☆☆

Peter got up and left to the bathroom, waking you up in the process. You can hear the shower turn on, and the rustling of clothes, but you don’t open your eyes to look. When the sound of water hitting the tiled floor stops and the door opens, you consider it safe to sit up and stretch, yawning away the evidence of a good night’s rest. It felt good, you think to yourself. It felt good not to be yelled awake for a job you didn’t want. It felt good to be near the first person you’ve ever trusted in your life after so many years of hurt.

Though, when you opened your eyes, you should’ve asked whether or not Peter was clothed. He had a towel around his waist, yes, but the sight of him dripping wet from a shower and eating buttered toast got you turning a darker shade. He didn’t notice you until you put up your hands to shield your burning face, which got him laughing of course. His footsteps get louder and you hear the last crunch of his toast before he moves your hand out of the way to face you properly. His hair is drenched, and he runs his other hand through it to slick it back as much as he can to avoid getting it in his eyes.

“You okay? You’re looking like a tomato over here.” He can tell. He can tell that you were staring and blushing and overall falling head-over-heels for his toned abs and his jawline and that voice. “There isn’t much to gawk at here.”

Bull. Shit. Peter knew exactly what was going on but, damn, if he didn’t play you right.

“I am so sorry! I promise it’ll never happen again- it was an accident!” You, whilst flustered and closing your eyes, offer an apology. If it’ll never happen again, you’re not sure of. But what you do know is that the image of him straight from the shower will stay burned into your mind forever. “I can-I can make it up to you! I’ll cook your dinner or do the laundry or-”

Your mind was racing, and you failed to create coherent sentences anymore. Peter didn’t take this as such a big shock- in fact, he was having a ball. He was laughing. Not at you but rather at how much of a deal it was for you. He knew you were going to wake up and he didn’t mind at all that his body could be seen by you. It’s not a secret to the people who lived nearby, like the old lady he occasionally helped take the trash out for or the man that lived above with the money issue.

“It was an accident, kid. Nothing bad. Though, I’ll be honest, it’s not something nobody’s seen before,” he replies, now making a mess of your hair as he goes off to get on a fresh set of clothing. “I’m going out to work again. I’ll see you later. Don’t get into too much trouble, alright?” It’s like he doesn’t seem to care.

You wave him a goodbye out the door, still trying to get yourself together. Even when he’s probably long gone for a few hours, your face fails to complete the simple task of cooling down. After a few minutes, you manage to scramble your thoughts together to try and keep your composure. Now that Peter’s gone, maybe you can concentrate on something else. Using your hands, you lightly dust off anything on the futon. It’s plain, and there’s no pillow. In fact, you didn’t notice that until just now. In its place, there’s a soft ball of unworn clothing.

You notice the heap of clothing in the corner for dirty clothing, though, has gotten significantly smaller. There’s only three or four things in that pile now, when previously there were six. Maybe Peter took his work clothes from that pile? Sometimes, wearing the same thing for the whole week was just easier than having to wash so much. You’re going to have to talk to him about this later, though. Now that you’re here, he doesn’t need to worry about that laundry so much.

Just as you get up to make the pile just a little neater, a void opens up. Its edges are bright, yet the inside is completely empty. Having opened above the couch, you move yourself to the far end of the room. You don’t want to get involved with whatever it is but, at the same time, it catches your interest. A head pops out from inside; a small girl, with short hair and a school uniform exceeding this current era, takes a look at her surroundings. She gives you a wave and gets down by hanging on the edge of the void, placing her feet on the couch, and jumping down. Shortly after, a giant robot sticks its LED head and simply drops down, destroying the couch on impact.

You’re so very afraid. You don’t know who- or what- has just destroyed the couch but they’re looking right at you. Though the girl seems innocent enough, you can’t quite trust the thing that’s trailing behind her. Then, she asks you a question whilst your back is against the wall and you scramble for something to defend yourself with. If you had gone to the kitchen, you could have gotten something of use. Instead, you’re right next to the porch and you’d rather not have to jump from the fourth floor in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen my friend? He’s this tall-” the girl raises her hand above her head to a height similar to Peter’s. “and he’s always dark and mopey.”

You shake your head no, and fumble with the things in your pocket. All there is in there is loose change and the wrapper of a chocolate bar. This is not how you wanted it all to end. The girl frowns and looks over to the large creature behind her, shrugging as the creature reciprocates with a question mark.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen him? This is his house. His name’s Peter- big glasses and a big heart,” the girl went on, and you’re starting to think that maybe she means Peter. Or- well- your Peter. The Peter that just left for work. “You must’ve seen him! Right?”

Then you nod, slowly, hoping that this didn’t put him in danger. Maybe this was one of those friends he was talking about? He seemed so crazy and he didn’t make sense but, maybe, he was right about that color theory. Maybe he was right about those friends and that Rubik’s cube and things being so bright that they burned your eyes.

“He’s, uh, not here. He just went for work.” You can’t move. You can’t move from where you’re pressing your back against the wall, hearing your heartbeat in your ears as you expect the worst. “I am so sorry-” you start.

“Oh, it’s okay! Could you give him this? Tell him it’s from his friend Peni!” The girl- Peni- gives you a wrapped box, with a neat bow on top and a smiley-face drawn on an attached tag. “Tell Peter that we’ll meet soon.” Then, just as soon as she had appeared, Peni jumps into the void, with her creature following behind, and disappears. The void is gone, and you’re left alone. The couch, however, is still very much in the worst state it can be. No amount of light dusting can fix this, leaving nothing to do other than to wait for Peter’s return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many more thanks to that thirsty noir channel in the spiderverse discord. Them guys are the biggest reason why i kept going with this ♡♡


	3. Off Putting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tells you a bigger ridiculous thing and you need time to understand it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to come out! I've been busy with exams recently but still managed to get this up. Promise to get to the next one as soon as I can!!

You rush around the place, looking for something to fix the problem with. However, there aren’t many things that can help put a couch back together after being smashed. Wooden pieces stuck out of the pile of cotton, with smaller pieces of wood accompanying the floor. The gift gets placed on the kitchen counter as you panic; you can only hope that this is some crazy nightmare. However, no matter how many times you pinch yourself, there’s no indication of it being fake. You count your fingers and check the placement of the moon multiple times, with no significant changes.

In your frenzy, you step on some wood and get a splinter on your right foot. The piece of wood stings you, and you even bleed a little bit, but you continue to rush from one end of the apartment to the other. Still, the couch is there, look8ng very destroyed and very not okay. What will Peter say? What will Peter do?  That girl might’ve ruined your chances at leaving the cycle for good- Peter’s going to definitely kick you out now. Through the flurry of thoughts, you can’t help but start crying.

You get down on your knees in front of the couch- careful not to be too close- and let it all out. Your hands cover both of your eyes and, before you know it, you’ve gotten your shirt wet with tears. There’s a jiggle of the doorknob and you try your hardest to get yourself together for Peter’s return- that’s the hardest thing to do right now.

“Good God- what happened here?” You await the scolding, shutting your eyes and awaiting impact. Instead, you feel Peter’s arms embracing you closely in a warm embrace. One of his hands rubs your back to comfort you, even if he has no idea what had just happened. “It’s okay, doll. It’s okay. Are you okay? Damn, I can’t imagine what you’ve just been through.”

Peter holds you by the shoulder, wiping your tears with a sleeve. You can’t control your sobbing, leaning your head on his shoulder as he continues to pat you.

“A-a girl came from the ceiling- she-she-she ah- she had this big round thing with legs and lights follow her and i-it destroyed you-your couch! I’m so sorry!” At your ‘confession’, Peter’s face lights up. He’s suddenly so much more interested in this little girl, now inspecting your face for any cuts or bruises. All that’s there is tears.

“A girl, huh? What’d she look like?” Peter is sceptical but, judging from the state his couch is in, he doesn’t feel like you’re lying. You describe her- short hair, peppy, large eyes, and being trailed by a giant machine- as he gets continuously more enlightened. “Did you catch her name?”

It takes a bit of thinking and trying to learn how to breathe properly, but a shaky ‘ _Peni?’_ comes out of your mouth, prompting Peter to smile. You calm down a bit, now knowing this ‘Peni’ has something good to do with Peter. Or, at least, in a way that will hopefully not get you hurt any worse. She gave you the fright of your life and you’re supposed to smile? That’s very difficult to do, considering the fact that you still can’t get yourself to stop crying.

Then you remember Peni’s gift for Peter, excusing yourself from him to go fetch it from the kitchen counter where you had left it in your run-around. The man looks at you, confused, but takes it to be inspected. He sees the smiley face, confirming that it really is from Peni when he spots her name on the other side, alongside ‘To Noir’ above it. The ribbon is tugged until it’s undone, allowing Peter the ability to open it.

Removing the lid, the box reveals a small flat-brick-shaped objects. The surface is smooth and shiny; similar to the Rubik’s cube, it doesn’t feel like it fits in this world. Being picked up, the surface glows and shocks you, even catching Peter by surprise. There’s a smiley face on the surface now, an animated finger swiping across the screen as an instruction to do the same.

It’s like a small television, with a brighter screen and no visible nobs. There are buttons along the sides of this object, but there’s no other similarities. Peter does as the screen instructs, swiping across. To the amazement of the both of you, it slides off the bright smiley-face image to be replaced with a note. It’s not made of paper, but it definitely is there. You can’t read it, from where you’re sitting behind Peter, but he can and even smiles before swiping again.

The note is then gone too, where it will most likely never be seen again, showing a dimly-lit set of square images in rows. There’s a camera square, a square with two bubbles to represent chatting, and many other squares you can’t really understand. Peter turns the object over, showing a rectangular thing. You assume it’s some decoration, but it looks too important to be just that.

The box has a remaining piece of paper, which is folded to hide an image inside. Peter puts down the gadget, in favour of opening this piece of paper. Inside is a drawing- with crayon, of course- which includes a small girl, a man that you recognise as Spiderman, and four other people. There’s something to this drawing- just like the Rubik’s cube and the gadget- that makes it feel like it’s more than it really is. It’s colour. You hate to admit it but maybe Peter’s colour theory is real.

You assume that Spiderman being in the image is a tribute to him, though that doesn’t explain why Peter would be gifted this image. The other four figures- two teens, a man with a jacket, and a pig- don’t look anywhere close to Peter. You can recognise the little girl being Peni, with matching clothing, but there’s nobody in the picture that resembles anybody you’d recognise. Spiderman is here, but where’s Peter.

“Who is that girl?” You ask. You know her name is Peni, and that she gets nonchalantly followed around by a giant whirring machine, but that’s essentially all that you know. Peter takes a deep breath, sighs, and puts down the paper. He’s careful to put it back in the box, so that it doesn’t get ruined, and grabs you by the shoulders. At this point, you’ve stopped crying. However, your eyes widen at what you hear.

“If I tell you this, you must promise never to tell anybody. A word about this to anybody else is going to put you straight into a coffin.” Peter looks directly into your eyes. You hope he doesn’t mean it, but his eyes yell at you to take his word for it. You expect him to confess to being an Alley Cat. Yet, by luck or something other, he says something that completely derails your train of thought. “My name is Peter Benjamin Parker and, at night, I am Spiderman.”

At first, you start laughing. You don’t know why, but your body can’t help but laugh, and chuckle, and snort. Peter doesn’t flinch. He’s gripping you tight on the shoulders, signalling that he’s not telling you a lie. He’s not fibbing, not giving you a sarcastic glare. Instead, he forces your body to shut up and properly process what has just been said. _Peter Benjamin Parker, with the rinky-dink apartment and destroyed couch, is Spiderman_.

People paid millions for this kind of information, which you got entirely for free just because you were some poor sap trying to get some rest under the unrelenting sun. You’re shocked, and it’s difficult to say anything, until Peter gets up to place the box- including the gadget and the ribbon that was undone on the floor- on the coffee table. You watch as he walks around, waiting for you to get some thought back into your head.

Still, you look back down at your hands. You didn’t do anything special to get to this point; you did the bare minimum and you got something worth billions of dollars in your power. Though, you’d very much like to be alive. Suddenly, something cold and web-like grabs you by the back and pulls you to the other side of the room, where Peter catches you before your face smashes into the wall.

“Wanted proof or something? There. Nothing to anybody else, okay?” You are so baffled by the weight of this information, which is something so forbidden, and you can’t move whilst you’re still in close proximity with him. Now is not a good time to admire his features staring back at you, hand holding you by the waistband of your pants that had previously stopped you from getting a bloody nose. “Just take a moment to think about it, alright?”

Peter can bet every single bit of his life that your head is racing and failing to get anything stuck together, still stuck in a trance. The webbing is pulled off of your back, and Peter leaves you standing for a while. You turn around from staring at the wall, sliding down to the ground to hug your legs. You hold your knees close, still trying to process everything.

“So, you don’t have a job, do you?” This is the only question your half-conscious mind can put together, wondering where he got so much money. Does ‘being Spiderman’ count as a job? Does Spiderman get paid by the government, or do they see him as the vigilante he is? In response, Peter shakes his head no as he’s putting on a coat and some boots.

“There’s plenty of bad people out there. When somebody abuses their power, it is the responsibility of the people to regulate it,” he replies, which doesn’t help answer your question entirely, but he continues on. “If somebody out there isn’t with enough to spend a dollar or two on someone who actually needs it but makes the conscious effort to hate the needy, then they don’t deserve a dime. I’m a private eye, yes, but I don’t charge for pressing matters.”

Peter kneels down in front of you, placing a hand on your arm so that you look up and allow him to speak eye-to-eye. It’s odd to be on the same level as Spiderman, but you can’t really complain. He trusts you enough to put such information in your hands and, in return, you better stick to the promise.

“I’m going down to the bar for an egg cream or two. You want to come or do you want to think for a moment?” You remind Peter of himself, when _he_ found out that he was Spiderman. The sticking to things, the scratch at the back of his skull, the loud thoughts, the increased senses- it was far too unbearable for him too. Though you don’t know what that’s like, knowing that person felt just as disastrous. You, placing a hand on his, get up and nod. He’s happy that you’ve got yourself together, but still worried. He takes the gadget from the coffee table, puts an arm around your shoulder, and takes you to the bar.

☆☆☆

The street lights don’t make the walk any better, instead forcing you to stay silent as Peter tries to seem a bit coherent. It has barely been enough days for you to deal with something like this, but a glass of milk or something of that sort might help you. Still, your head is swamped by the thoughts that are showing little to no signs of leaving you alone. By the time you’re both in the bar- which is a long distance away-, your hands are sweaty and disgusting, having been in your pockets the whole time.

Peter orders an egg cream for himself, and a glass of milk for you. The bartender makes a joke about how Peter has never tried to drink a ‘man’s drink’, but that only gets a huff out of him and glazes right over you as you stare into your cup. The milk is white and pure- nowhere near the brightness that gadget had earlier. Peter drinks his egg cream with ease, not feeling perturbed about this at all. You, on the other hand, feel like you’ve been handed a deadly ticking time-bomb.

The bar is filled, but only two or three are sitting by the counter where the bartender is. It’s the perfect place to discuss such fragile information, with little to no people to hear what Peter has to say.

“There’s six of us,” Peter starts, getting closer to you. At first, you don’t understand what he means. That is until he taps on his wrist to remind you that, yes, that event still happened. “Well, not just six of us. But there were six of us _there_. There in the place I told you about. There’s me, first of all-

“Should I say seven? There was another one but, ah, he had already croaked by the time I was there.” You take a sip of your milk, now a lot less interested in getting any liquid inside of your churning stomach. Something feels so very off, but you don’t speak up to let him continue.

“He looked exactly like me, but with light hair and so much younger. A good twenty-ish years apart from me. I looked on a big moving billboard and the lady inside it said I was dead. The lady in the billboard said _Peter Parker was dead_. I thought that I really did. I felt it in my bones, and the bright lights around me made me feel like I had reached the golden gates.”

He rubs his left wrist with his thumb, coat- a smaller one, which resembled Spiderman’s- and stops to think. You notice how dark the tips of his index fingers and thumb are, with a few scars along the other fingers. Peter breathes and, even if for just a moment, you catch the fear in his eyes. He doesn’t want to die, even if he thrusts himself into the position of being Spiderman in a world like this.

“Everything was so loud. Honking, yelling- there were too many things going on.” Peter continues to describe what this version of New York was like. How it didn’t hold so much despair, and how it seemed to have colour in comparison to the world the two of you had to stick in. The gadget in his pocket vibrates and he takes a second to stop and not bother with touching it. He doesn’t want to alarm anybody around him.

He explains the first emotion he had in his life for a long while- fear- and how he first met his ‘friends’. The little girl- Peni, he reminds you- scares the daylights out of him in an alleyway. There’s a pig who trails alongside her, as she’s inside the giant creature. His expression changes when he talks about feeling like he had met his own kin, sparing the details on the spider-sense but explaining the scratch behind his skull.

There’s a moment he nearly tears up- or he does, as you’re drinking from your glass of milk- talking about his supposed-to-be-dead relative. There’s the feeling of discovery when the pig- which you still can’t quite wrap your head around- is teaching him what the colours are on the Rubik’s cube. How he has such interest in the varying shades of grey. Then comes the fight, and the anger, and the emotional trauma when he realises he loves and cares for these people. These people, plus the pig.

“I never saw them again after that,” he finishes, rubbing the nape of his neck and drinking the last of his egg cream until the sounds of an empty glass indicate that it’s done. “It’s a lot, I know.”

You already can’t remember half of what he’d just said but you get the gist of it. He went to a whole other universe- one where it’s not 1933 and dull, with a side of brooding- to come back with a cube. You’re surprised he didn’t take anything else with him but, if you were in that situation, you wouldn’t make it back.

Peter places a few bills on the counter, tells the bartender to keep the change, and continues onwards with you following. His hands are in his pockets, and you’re tempted to ask about his fingers, but you keep your mouth shut. He’s told you enough things and you didn’t want to get anything else messed up.

For a while, neither of you speak. It’s hard to pick up a conversation after what you were told, and you’re not trying to make one. Sometimes, it’s good for two people to enjoy the silence of walking together. Maybe it’s the cold breeze of the night, or the train of thought you’re half stuck in, but you reach over to grab Peter’s elbow and hold it close to you. He’s not the warmest thing, but it’s better than nothing, as he sighs. He puts his entire arm around your shoulders, to try warming you.

You can’t tell if that’s what you wanted or not, but you continue to embrace him by his side as you both continue back to the apartment. He’s not complaining though. If anything, he might even enjoy this.

☆☆☆

You’ve forgotten about the couch and, when you return, the memory hits you hard. Before you can even begin to apologise, Peter has started using his webbing to pick up some pieces of wood that can be salvaged for later use. The cushions- though wrecked beyond repair- are stored somewhere in a cupboard in the kitchen and the remaining debris is brushed away by a broom and into a very old and beat up dustpan, which was then thrown into the bin.

Though, this brings up an issue. With the couch gone, Peter didn’t have anywhere to sleep. You do the responsible thing and offer him the futon, to which he replies with a no and forces you to sleep on it. The two of you agree to share instead, which brings you to your current situation.

You’ve got your back turned- you assume he’s doing the same, because you can’t hear his breathing all that well- and you’re staring at the cabinet. You can identify it as mahogany, rich and fancy. You’re glad you cleaned the poor thing up; it looks a lot happier. Even in this dark world, you can tell it means a lot to Peter. Maybe so much that he can’t dare to touch it?

You can feel Peter turn over and breathe down your neck, sighing before trying to catch a rhythm in his rest. Despite this, you can tell he’s not asleep. In the past, you’ve observed him snoring. Loud, too, so you avoid the urge to turn and face him. It’s only then that you notice how warm he is, and how nice it’d be to curl up by his chest like a cat. In the past, you’ve made do with sleeping in the cold, but now you have a chance to stay warm and not freeze off your toes.

Slowly, you turn and pray that he has his eyes closed. Instead, you are greeted by a very awake and very eyes-opened Peter Benjamin Parker, who’s decided a turtleneck would be good for the night to avoid making you feel uncomfortable. You can feel your cheeks burn as you try your hardest to avoid from turning around again. Peter is warm, you remind yourself.

You notice Peter chuckle- a real, genuine, chuckle! - and you feel as if you could burn a hole into the ground. For a moment, it’s the two of you, sharing the futon on the floor and staring at each other. This isn’t supposed to be romantic, you think to yourself. You’re sharing only because Peter doesn’t have the heart to tell you not to. He’s generous and gentle, making him being Spiderman a bit difficult to imagine.

It’s hard to look away, now. Though your faces are some distance away, you can’t help but feel a force from within pulling you closer. It’s warmer, the closer you get, and you can very easily see Peter’s face turning a warm grey. Then there’s the infectious smile as he eventually turns around. If you had lost yourself in that moment, you would’ve whined like a dog.

You can hear him snoring- louder than before, now that you’re sleeping right next to him- and it surprisingly _helps_ you fall into the sweet oblivion of sleep. Just before your consciousness blurs away from your body, and your eyes shut closed, you can barely feel something- no, _somebody_ \- put their arm around you. _It’s to keep you warm_ you force yourself to think. _He’s only looking out for you._

That’s all.

☆☆☆

You wake up to the cold air assaulting your side as you spoon a stack of clothes, presumably from Peter. Though, you don’t see him anywhere. You assume it’s because he went out to fight crime or something like that, but you can clearly see the sun through the window. Spiderman doesn’t fight in the sun; it’s like mob bosses and villains are allergic to the sun.

You can hear some very loud, and very obscene, yelling from the outside. At first, you don’t have the consciousness to try guessing who it is. However, once you’re up and have eaten a chocolate bar from the cupboard, you can tell its Peter’s voice. There’s a few metal clashing sounds, then a failed motor, but you don’t leave to investigate.

That is, until you hear an extremely loud word that would’ve made mothers tape the ears of their children to avoid the corruption that Peter would’ve forced into their minds. You take that as he’s getting hurt and, after a trip down the stairs, you notice that the sound is more prominent in the alleyway.

There’s a stench that destroys your senses, and you can’t help but spot a few dried up bloodstains. Peter has his back to you, doing _something_ to whatever he’s looking at. You clear your throat to get his attention, getting him to turn in surprise and see somebody. He immediately turns back around to tend to what you assume is a bike.

“Hey,” he nonchalantly says, throwing a wrench to the ground and huffing. When you get closer, you notice it’s a very beat-down motorcycle. “Found this while I was on patrol. Thought the thing could get back up and running if I just tinkered with it.”

Upon closer inspection, the motorcycle looks far beyond ‘damaged’. There are no lights anywhere, and the wheels are both gone. Every visible piece of metal is bent, dented, or rusty. There’s obviously a huge chunk more of this motorcycle missing, such as the seat and the rubber that’s supposed to cover the handles.

On the ground by it is a few of those missing bits of metal, which are obviously useless in their current state. There’s miscellaneous pipes and pieces of metal that are alongside it, not from the motorcycle but salvaged from the trash. There’s dirt covering Peter’s boots and his pants are drenched in some nasty lake water, judging from the stench.

His hair is wet and sticking to his face, either from getting in a lake or from sweating so much. His glasses were tucked into his coat pocket and, though his vision was blurry, he could see well enough to pick the wrench back up from when he had thrown it. He’s frustrated, you note.

“Do you…do you know _how_ to fix it?” Maybe it was a bit rude, but even you had to admit that Spiderman was more of the silent type. Stay down low, don’t be heard. That’s how Spiderman worked and you could only assume that Peter was the same. “It looks…” You inhaled through your teeth.

“It’s better to try than to leave this thing to rot,” he responds, now seeing if one of the metal pipes he had found could fit in this area or that. You didn’t know the first thing about motorcycle maintenance, and you’re very unsure of how to approach this field of thought. You’ve never been so close to such a thing without being told off, and Peter’s essentially inviting you to take a peek. “I could ask one of my fellows to come help but, ah, wouldn’t want to risk them getting hurt or something like that.”

Peter takes his gadget- he tells you it’s called a ‘phone’ but neither of you call it that because it looks nothing like one- and taps it a few times. He doesn’t want anybody else on the street to take it or faint thanks to it- god knows how others will react to such a thing- and conceals it by using it inside his coat. It’s a bit difficult, he must admit, but at least it gets the job done.

The man stuffs the gadget into his coat pocket when he’s done- having done a bit of tapping on the screen that you can’t quite understand- and he wipes the top of his forehead with his sleeve. The heat was unforgiving today, you would’ve noted, but maybe it’d make things worse to point out the boiling sun. Peter coughs, kicks a few metal pieces away, and turns to face you.

“Want to head to the speakeasy with me?” You both knew which one. It was quite the walk away, but it’s not a big deal. It’s the only one in the area and you assumed that Peter didn’t have any other means of transport, judging by him trying to fix up the motorcycle. “If you don’t want to lose yourself, I can hook you with an egg cream. Or milk, if you want it.”

You nod, pocketing your hands. Now that you’ve got better clothing, you’d never ask for anything less. Pockets, for storing your on-hand items. Shirts without holes to protect you, somewhat. The warm body of a private eye sleeping on the same futon, holding you close, to keep you warm.

You wish you could have it all. You know you can’t.

☆☆☆

Following Peter down to Rickaby’s, you notice the chance to ask about his hands. You saw the state they were in earlier- darker at the tips of his index fingers and very scarred around the wrists. His knuckles sported a few scars, but not as deep as the ones noted earlier. Seeing as they were on display- he stuck the thumb of each hand in his coat pockets but let his hands bask in the wind- you thought that maybe it’d be fine to ask.

“Your hands,” you start, not really knowing how to continue. “They, uh, don’t look so good.” You can only chalk it up to fighting for so long, but why do the index fingers have such specific scars? Surely, Spiderman has never been caught before to be tortured, and he wears gloves, so you can imagine that these would be the least-scarred parts of his body.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Don’t mind them.” At that, he puts his hands fully into his coat pockets, visibly fidgeting with the fabric inside. It’s a sensitive topic, probably. As Peter rounded the corner to Rickaby’s, you notice how silent it is. You’ve never been around it during the daylight but, now that you’re here, it looks deserted. “Just battle scars.”

Peter keeps the door open for you as the both of you step inside, with nobody in sight. There’s the few employees, and the handful of light drinkers, but one could essentially call this place empty. The bartender spots Peter and gets working on an egg cream before he takes a seat. The bartender looks at you and you reply with a nod towards Peter for an egg cream; though you’ve never had one, you expect it to have a nice taste. Maybe alcoholic? Must not have a lot in it, judging by how calm and collected Peter had seemed to be last night.

“You know, when I first saw the others,” Peter speaks, sipping his egg cream as the bartender gets to work on yours. It takes you a second to remember who the ‘others’ are, making you feel a little stupid. “I noticed that some of them had these, uh, little gizmos. These little wristband things.”

He gestures over to his wrist trying to look for a word but leaves that space blank, hoping you get the main idea.

“My webbing isn’t artificial; all real,” he tells you, knowing that you’d understand. It kind of grosses you out a bit, knowing that whatever stuck to you the other day came out of his body, but there’s a lot of other things to complain about other than this. “Wonder what theirs is made of. Might help me.”

Peter takes a sip of his egg cream as the bartender hands you yours, but not leaving the two of you alone. The bartender- Harold, says his nametag- leans on the counter with both of his elbows. He looks at Peter then nods to you, as you’re taking the first ever sip of your egg cream. It’s sweet and, oddly enough, non-alcoholic? You’re surprised and continue drinking with enthusiasm, Harold leaning in closer to Peter so that he can ask the man a question.

“Where’d you pick this rat up?” Harold asks, hoping you can’t hear him whispering. Peter sighs, rather loudly, and drinks his egg cream a bit more. “Kid looks like a beggar. One of them, uh, you know…” Then, Peter gives Harold a stare. It’s sharp, it’s painful, and you can feel the energy that it radiates. Scary.

“It’s not like that. Just helping them out, y’know.” If it hadn’t been for the other night, you would’ve thought of Harold as pointing out a truth. Instead, you can’t see it beyond the point of sharing a futon. Hey, maybe Peter’s gonna buy a new one. Or a new couch. A new something- you know he’s not going to willingly spend another night next you, keeping you warm.

You space out for a moment, not noticing until tall, dark, and handsome snaps his fingers in front of your face. He’s noticed. They’ve all noticed. Harold laughs, nudging Peter with his elbows before getting on with whatever work a bartender does when not serving drinks. Probably off to wipe some glasses, or something.

“You okay, champ?” Peter looks at you with concern. Maybe you didn’t sleep well. Maybe everything is getting to your head. Maybe you just don’t understand. Maybe nothing is going on at all. Everything is moving at an awkward pace- fast, slow, fast, slow- and you can’t keep up but you keep going too far. “Take it easy, kid. Finish up and we can go on out again.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You quickly empty out your egg cream, leave it for Harold the bartender, and follow Peter out the door.

“You’re not too frazzled, right? Don’t want to trip over any wires here.” It’s sweet and endearing how concerned Peter was for you. Your head is hazy and your thoughts are a bit convoluted at the moment, but you could probably manage. Something catches Peter’s attention, though, as he quickly turns to look at something.

Doc Ock was back again, crazier than ever before. Peter rushes the both of you into a dark alley, pushing you against a wall and gesturing for you to stay quiet. Spiderman left you there, the sounds of mechanical whirring and the draw of a gun making it difficult to contain any noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments or kudos would be greatly appreciated UwU Thank you so much for giving me the motivation to finish this, making this the longest fic I've worked on in my life, and I still haven't deleted this! I've fully fleshed out the story as well and will be finishing it someday. Not anytime soon, of course. It's still got a long timeline ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have anything to say- critiques, prompts to add, etc- I'm open.


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